Savior
by Alpha.Exodus
Summary: He was once the savior of the world. Now, he is Draco's savior. A non-epilogue-compliant fic in which Harry is the caretaker of a certain Malfoy on house arrest. Some Harry/Ginny, but mostly Harry/Draco. Mixed other pairings. Rated for mature content in later chapters. ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

_A single tear is dropping  
Through the valleys of an aging face _

_That this world has forgotten_

_-Savior, Rise Against_

In the end, the most unbearable part of the whole thing was simply the _waiting_. It freaked him out. He didn't show it, of course, but he was scared. Absolutely terrified. The end was so close. He could taste it, feel it, watch it shove beneath his skin and make him feel like a puddle of mud. He knew how it would end. He had years of those demented, soul-sucking Azkaban guards to live with. They would probably kill him, with the amount of darkness he held within his memories. Maybe it would be better just to Obliviate himself. But he couldn't even do that—they had taken his wand.

He had already thought about all of this more times than he could count. Perhaps they thought that if they left him with enough time to think about it againagain_again_, he would confess to some other horrid crimes that he had never committed. Like being a former Death Eater wasn't enough.

Waiting. He hated this. Every moment without human contact brought him closer to the inevitable doom that the forsaken prison would cause. Maybe certainty is even worse than uncertainty, he thought. At least with uncertainty, he would have hope. There was no hope for Draco Malfoy.

xXdMHpXx

The door to his cell creaked open. It sounded rusty, like it needed a good oiling. The doors at the Manor would never be allowed to fall into such disrepair. But this is the Ministry, and he is nothing but a lowly criminal. At least they gave him a pillow. He doubted he would have as much if he went to Azkaban. _When_, his mind corrected automatically. He sighed and looked up into the first human face he had seen in days.

"Come get cleaned up. Your trial starts in half an hour." The burly man's voice was rough and unforgiving. Draco got up and followed him, limbs creaky with disuse. It felt good to be able to walk farther than ten feet in one direction. _Possibly one of my last freedoms, _he thought bitterly. There was no anger, however. Anger had no place in this resigned, sinful version of Draco.

He relished his (_lastever_) shower, watching as all of the cell grit washed down the drain. His former self would have cringed horribly at the thought of the grime, left by years of prisoners from ages past. His current self was past caring. He dried off with a flimsy, greying towel and dressed in the sweater and trousers that had been brought for him. He inhaled the scent of the shirt. It smelled like home. More Manor raids, he supposed. But at least he could smell home.

No one would speak for him, he knew. His parents were dead. Well, not technically—his father was dead. His mother was currently in a St. Mungo's ward for mental insanity. Not that he blamed her. He missed his mother. He had no friends left. The world thought he was evil, and it wasn't like the power-hungry Ministry would pay attention to a few barely-credible witnesses who spoke on his nature.

He deserved this. He had been a Death Eater. He had Crucio'd multiple people, and had tried to kill Dumbledore. He had caused scars and pain and horror and he deserved nothing less than a pitiful life in Azkaban.

His eyes were a dull grey as a Ministry official led him towards the courtrooms. It was cold. It reminded him of the old Hogwarts dungeons. His life as a student seemed eons away.

There were no body guards, at least. He wasn't much of a menace, he supposed, without a wand. Physically, he had grown underfed and thin during the last few months of the war, after his mother had snapped. When no one had cared enough to provide him with enough food. At least he still had some muscle from the days when he used to play Quidditch. It wasn't much.

His hair was wet. He hated having wet hair. His hands itched to grab for his wand and cast the quick drying spell that he had down to perfection. But he resisted. His wand wasn't there, and it wasn't in his pocket or lying on the desk. It was in the hands of some grubby Wizarding official. They had probably snapped it already, he thought miserably. He loved his wand.

Maybe he could ask his escort to dry his hair. But his voice would crack from disuse. He didn't want any more humiliation than necessary—he wasn't that much of a masochist.

More waiting. He wasn't allowed to go in the courtroom yet, for reasons unknown. The escort stood beside him, looking bored. The man glanced at his charge, then pulled out his wand, pointing it at Draco. He tensed abruptly, hand flying to his pocket so he could cast a Shield Charm—no, he couldn't. He settled for just cringing, and was pleasantly surprised when he realized the man had just dried his hair.

"Calm down, mate. I'm not here to torture ya or anything." Draco attempted to smile at the man. It turned out more like a grimace, he supposed. The man shrugged and went back to being bored.

The doors opened. Draco was led in, forcibly keeping his eyes from the gathered Wizengamot. He obediently sat in the stark wooden chair, then held still as the chains wrapped around his wrists.

Now that he wasn't waiting, everything was going by in a blur. He caught himself watching the small woman who was recording the proceedings. He idly wondered why she didn't just use a quick notes quill—her hand must hurt bloody horribly after all of that writing. He heard his name many times, then a list of his wrongdoings. Someone called for him to testify. He said nothing.

This was it. His verdict. The final pronouncement of his guilt.

"All in favor of guilt: raise your hands," came the decree.

And then it wasn't.

"Why didn't you call for witnesses?" a furious voice called out. Draco snapped his gaze to the direction of the oh-so-familiar voice. And then was dumbfounded at the sight.

The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, had just interrupted the proceedings of a Death Eater trial.

Harry Potter.

"No witnesses were listed on the—" came the voice of an old blustering official.

"I don't care, it's protocol! Err, at least, Hermione says so. And she's always right. So call for them!" He was standing in his seat, looking extremely intimidating. His hair was as chaotic as ever, and he wore rugged Muggle clothes.

The Wizengamot obligingly called for witnesses. Harry responded.

"I am Harry James Potter, here to testify on the behalf of Draco… erm, Draco Malfoy." Despite the falter on Draco's name, Harry stood strong before the officials. "I know we didn't get on well in school, and that he was a Death Eater. He can't hide from that. But he's just a kid. Just like me, and Ron, and Hermione, and any of the other teenagers who got dragged into the ugly war." He exhaled, presumably collecting his thoughts. Draco unclenched fists that he didn't recall tensing.

"I know he may have done bad things, but he doesn't deserve Azkaban. He didn't kill Dumbledore. Snape did. He doesn't deserve that foul place," Harry continued, and with that, seemed to run out of steam. "That is all," he concluded feebly. Draco's newfounded hope deflated. The man should have made Granger write him a speech or something.

"Is that all of the witnesses," called a slightly disgruntled voice from those assembled. No one spoke, and so the same voice rang out again.

"All those in favor of guilt: raise your hands."

Almost every hand in the room went up. His fate was sealed.

"No! That's not right!" Harry bellowed, infuriated once again.

"I understand your concern, Mr. Potter. But despite your vouching, his young age is not enough. We might have considered it if he had the possibility of house arrest, but his only living relative is in St. Mungo's for an indeterminable amount of time. I apologize." The official made as if to turn away, but Harry shouted again.

"Wait! Why does it have to be a relative? Couldn't some other family take him in?" he protested. Draco almost wished that the man would stop fighting so that he wouldn't have to wait anymore. But, he supposed, he was allowed the ability to watch Potter trip over himself once again, so he did nothing. He decided to enjoy it while it lasted.

"There is no one willing, much less trustworthy, to take Mr. Malfoy in," the official said simply. In other words, Draco thought sourly, he had no friends.

"But… that can't be… He…" For once, the hero of the Wizarding world was speechless.

"If that is all interruptions, the Wizengamot now pronounces Draco—"

"I'll do it."

Draco looked back in surprise at Potter. The Wizengamot Leader did the same.

"Pardon, Mr. Potter?" He sounded extremely affronted, as if he would take no more of Harry's nonsense.

"I'll do it. I'll watch him. I mean, in my house. On house arrest. You know. That." Potter sounded resigned, yet determined. Somehow. Draco's mouth fell open in shock.

Voices broke out over the courtroom as the courtroom discussed the decision. Draco was unable to keep his eyes from Potter, who was resolutely not even glancing at him. Finally, the room quieted down.

"Mr. Potter. The court seems willing to allow this; however, you do realize that this is not a venture of a few months? Mr. Malfoy will need to be restrained for at least five years, most likely more," the leader enumerated. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Potter nodded grimly.

"All right." The leader turned to discuss something quickly with his neighbor while Draco tried to process what was happening. Because this certainly wasn't. It was probably a dream, and he'd wake up, any moment now, in a miserable Azkaban cell.

"All those in favor… raise your hands."

Draco scanned the room quickly. It wasn't a lot, but it was more than half. It was enough.

"The Wizengamot decrees that the charged will be subjected to seven years under house arrest, under the care of Harry James Potter. Should the accused violate said decree more than thrice…" The words ran together in Draco's mind. Seven years with Harry Potter. He wasn't going to Azkaban. He wasn't going to go insane in the depths of his own mind. His mind registered the quiet look on Potter's face. The man was finally looking at him. Not with pity, or disgust. Just looking. Draco struggled to pay attention to the voice again—it was probably vital information, but he only managed to catch the end of it.

"This trial is now adjourned," rang the voice of the Wizengamot leader.

Draco was free.

xXdMHpXx

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of these characters. They all belong to J. and affiliates.  
_

_A/N: This is my attempt at a long h/d fic. It's going to be a rocky road, but I really, really want to stick with it. It has potential. I'm not sure where it's going yet, but I think it will end up (hopefully) being something grand. It would be lovely if you would continue reading. Leave a review if you wish._

_~alexa;xoxo_


	2. Chapter 1

_There is no reconciliation_

_That will put me in my place_

_And there is no time like the present_

_To drink these draining seconds_

_-Savior, Rise Against_

Draco was _not _free.

He had left the courtroom still in shock, watched his wand handed off to Potter for safekeeping, and stood still while yet another official attached a magical metal alarm anklet to his leg. Apparently, it would prevent all Flooing and all Apparition except Side-Along (for emergencies only, he was assured), as well as alerting the authorities and emitting a loud noise if he pushed the wards of his "jail" for too long of a time. It was better than Azkaban.

Now, though, he was starting to reconsider that thought.

He had been brought to Potter's home through Side-Along. Potter barely spoke a word to him, other than a few terse words about where his bedroom and the bathroom were situated. Then, Draco was left alone. Maybe Potter was rethinking his decision as well.

He was fine with the lack of human contact, of course. The noises of 12 Grimmauld Place were a thousand times more in number than his prison cell at the Ministry. He welcomed the noise, embraced it, even the screaming portrait on the wall. It meant he was no longer alone in the world.

The real problem came with the realization that he was to be trapped in this dim, too-large flat for seven years. Seven fucking years. What the hell was he going to do with all of that time?

His thankfulness for not being sentenced to Azkaban was quickly draining away. At least there, he would be too mad to register the utter _boredom_ that any prison sentence entailed.

He paced his room. It was a surprisingly large one—easily five times the size of his tiny prison-hole. He had expected Potter to stick him in the smallest, dingiest room he owned. Or maybe a broom cupboard. He could see that happening.

He sat on the bed. It was reasonably comfortable, he decided. He lay back, staring at the ceiling. It was white—a color he had never expected to stare at again. And so his battle between annoyance and thankfulness continued.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, figuring he might as well sleep, now that he was aware of time again. He could see stars out of his window. It was nice…

xXxXxXxXx

The first surprise of the morning was his awakening to the smell of bacon and toast. Breakfast foods. He sat up eagerly, not sparing a thought to his day old outfit as he darted into the hallway—then stopped. What if Potter didn't want to share breakfast with him? Maybe he had only cooked for himself, and Draco should wait until he had left to try to sequester himself a meal. He was not good at cooking at all, being used to house elves all of his life. He felt strangely humbled at the thought of Potter having a skill that Draco did not possess.

He was staring at the ground, debating his choices in the middle of the hallway when he heard a shuffling noise. He jumped, immediately moving so that his back was to the wall before registering that it was only Potter. He resisted the temptation to give a sigh of relief. Having the Dark Lord and several other assorted dark wizards living in his house had been an unpleasant experience, to say the least.

"Oh, good, I was coming to get you. Err… I made breakfast," Potter offered with a shrug, giving Draco a very strange look indeed. Draco sneered automatically, pushing past Potter and down the stairs toward the smell of food. He really did not like the man. He supposed he had forgotten the extent of his dislike while catering even harsher feelings for the Dark Lord. Potter was so inelegant and awkward in speech and so _Gryffindor_. Draco shuddered. Trapped with a bloody Gryffindor for seven years…

He entered the kitchen, Potter padding behind him and sitting down in front of a full plate that rested on the oak table. It cheered Draco slightly to see that there were two plates of food instead of one, although he didn't show it. He had long been accustomed to not serving himself.

Sitting in a dignified manner, he tried his best to avoid scarfing down the food, though he felt unsuccessful by the way Potter stared at him. He couldn't bring himself to care about the git, for once. He was so hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten this much in one sitting, despite the fact that it was mere bacon sandwiches and milk.

It was not long before he was finished, even though Potter still had half a sandwich left. He sat there awkwardly, not knowing what to do next. Should he leave? Should he attempt to start a conversation? He supposed he would go with the latter, seeing as he would have to live with the man for what seemed like forever anyhow.

He ended up blurting out the first thing he could think of: "Why isn't my room in a broom cupboard?"

He seemed to have caught Potter unawares, as he immediately turned red and choked on the bit of sandwich he had just swallowed. Nonetheless, he rose and slammed his palms onto the table, looking furious. "What… I would never do that to _anyone_, you arsehole!"

Draco cringed slightly, not at all expecting such a vehement response. He was stunned into silence for a moment, but Potter's expression became one of confusion as he glared at the blond.

"You… you meant that as a serious question, didn't you?" he asked with a puzzled tone, backing off a bit from Draco, who nodded warily.

"First thing that popped into my head…" he muttered, crossing his arms and glaring at the table. He really did not enjoy Potter's outbursts as much as he had used to, he realized. He didn't like anger from anyone anymore, sans himself. It made him feel almost fearful.

"You mean… you_ weren't_ making a dig at my personal life, for once?" Potter verified.

Draco shook his head slowly. "I have no bloody idea what you're talking about," he raised his eyes to the dark-haired man.

"…Oh." Potter sat down, blinking a bit before taking a bite of his sandwich. "Sorry about that, I suppose. It's just… my Muggle relatives… the cupboard under the stairs…" He shook his head quickly, frowning slightly at a space somewhere in between his and Draco's plate before changing the subject completely. "I reckon we should visit the Manor today, so we can get you some clothes," he suggested, motioning to Draco's outfit.

Draco glanced down at the clothes and nodded. "You mean, you can go? I can't leave the house, remember?" he remarked. To be honest, he had no desire at the moment to visit his home. He wasn't yet bored enough to merit such a distraction. There were too many horrid memories, there.

"I wouldn't know what to get you, and I doubt the wards would admit me. You can go by Side-Along, hmm?" Potter strung the arguments along quite quickly, Draco acknowledged, but he still shook his head. Potter looked puzzled, opening his mouth to ask why not, presumably, but Draco cut him off.

"I don't feel like it," he stated simply, not bothering to explain further. He stood abruptly, glancing at his plate before deciding that Potter could dispose of it, and left the room.

xXxXxXxXx

The second surprise of the day came when Draco heard a visitor Floo in from the floor below him. His distaste for seeing Potter twice in one day warred with his curiosity and boredom as he considered going to find the identity of the visitor. His boredom quickly won, and besides, he mused, swinging his legs out of the bed he had been sprawled in, he was hungry again. Potter had not bothered to feed him lunch.

He was sorely disappointed, and rather disgusted, when he found no one even vaguely interesting in the parlor. It was merely the Weaselette, who was currently wrapped in a very thorough snog with Potter. Draco fought the urge to retch as he immediately began to retreat. He had no urge to watch this. However, his sudden movement seemed to alert the two, and they stepped away from each other, looking towards the noise—

And Ginevra's eyes flared wide in rage. She let out an a surprised, furious shriek, and Draco had no time to move, or even think, before she had pulled out her want and cast.

"_Crucio!"_

Her voice seemed to echo, and though the light looked as if it was coming toward him in slow motion, Draco found himself unable to move. He was trapped, watching the curse come nearer, watching Potter jump toward Ginevra but not quite fast enough…

And so he descended into a world of pain.

xXxXxXxXx

"Malfoy… up… blasted… wake… git… Malfoy…" Words came at blurry intervals, dispersed by the pounding ache in his head.

"….Draco!"

It was his name that finally roused him. He slid his eyes open, and then shut them again. The _light_… it was so horrible. How did people walk around with that in their _eyes_?

"Thank God, Malfoy. You're awake. No, don't fall asleep again!" He heard, and was shaken vigorously not long after he closed his eyes. He groaned and opened them again, slightly this time, letting the smallest amount of light in as he possibly could.

"'M 'wake…" he mumbled, grimacing at the pain in his head. A muffled apology came from the person who had so rudely brought him back into the real world, and the light dimmed around him. He sighed in relief, widening his eyes. His head still hurt, but without the light to irritate it, he felt much better off.

Now that he could think, he set about assembling his memories of what had happened before the pain. Ah, he had been attacked.

Attacked! His eyes flew open all the way, and he sat up, looking wildly around him for a glimpse of red hair.

Augh, big mistake. He moaned in agony as the pain in his head flared again.

"'S'okay, Malfoy. She went home." That would be Potter, he supposed, turning to look. Yes, there was no mistaking the ugly glasses and scar on his head.

"You're ugly…" Draco muttered as an excuse for closing his eyes once again. In reality, being aware simply hurt. He heard Potter snort.

"You don't look much better at the moment, quite frankly," Potter observed wryly. Draco groaned, voluntarily this time. He hated not looking his absolute best. He felt something being shoved into his hand.

"Chocolate is for dementors," he sneered at Potter as he realized what the weight in his hands was. Nonetheless, he unwrapped it and began scarfing it down.

"Chocolate helps everything," Potter grinned slightly as he watched Draco eat, before becoming more somber. "Shit, I forgot to make lunch, didn't I…" he realized.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him. "You think?" He had finished the chocolate bar in record time, and he did feel better, though he would never have mentioned it. He spared a thought of aversion at his proximity to Potter, but decided to discuss his more pressing questions first, mainly: "Why the hell did your bloody _girlfriend_ just Crucio me?"

Potter grimaced. "That was my fault. I was going to tell her you were here, that's why I invited her over. But we kind of got distracted, and I didn't think you were going to come downstairs… for the record, though, that was actually more like an hour ago. She packed some punch into that curse," he added, looking suspiciously proud. Draco glared at him, and he had the grace to look embarrassed. "Err… sorry," he tacked on. At least he sounded sincere.

"She won't attack me again, correct?" Draco enquired, shifting his eyes around him warily. Potter nodded emphatically.

"Of course not. I explained the situation, and she won't attack you… although I can't say the same for myself. She's not too happy with me at the moment, considering I let you in here and then jumped her when she cursed you…" he trailed off, obviously unhappy with the riff that Draco had caused between him and his girlfriend.

"Jumped her?" Draco wondered, pushing himself further away from Potter.

"I sort of, err, stopped her just a bit too forcefully," he admitted. "She ended up hitting her head on the coffee table."

This information slightly shocked Draco. Who would have thought that Potter would attack his own girlfriend so that she would stop hurting his mortal enemy? But then, he supposed, it was probably that 'saving people' thing that seemed to be Potter's personal mantra.

There was a lull in the conversation as Draco considered what had happened and Potter considered his trousers.

"…I'm hungry," Draco broke the silence.

Potter pulled himself out of his trouser-centric reverie and jumped up, holding out a hand for Draco. Out of spite, Draco refused the hand, dragging himself up in a more awkward but much more satisfying way. Potter rolled his eyes.

"Come on, then. What do you want?"

"I want my bloody freedom," Draco muttered darkly, and Potter snorted as they trotted toward the kitchen.

xXxXxXxXx

_A/N: Second chapter. Yesss. I really had to force myself to start churning this out, but I found that it was quite nice once I started writing it again. Now, if I only had an idea of where this was going to go… I suppose I will just follow the characters. They seem to know what they're doing, hehe._

_Oh, yes, the characters: I do not own them. Not even Draco. Beautiful Draco. Ahhhhh he is amazing. Ah well._

_Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to Sara's Girl and her amazing fic, Turn. They are in my favorites. Please go read it; it is so much better than anything I have written, and it serves as my inspiration for my writing at the moment. (:_


	3. Chapter 2

_But seldom do these words ring true_

_When I'm constantly failing you_

_Like walls that we just can't break through_

_Until we disappear_

_-Savior, Rise Against_

Draco was at the Manor. He just wasn't sure _how_ he had gotten to the Manor. He figured it probably had something to do with Potter. Whatever. He remembered the git saying something about collecting his clothes and personal items. Maybe he should do that, if only to get the man off of his case. He turned to head to his bedroom.

Oh. He was already there. How odd. That hallway must have been shorter than he remembered. At least now he didn't have to avoid the traps that littered the slightly longer route he was used to taking.

He opened drawers and began tossing clothing onto his bed. Where was his favourite silver shirt? He remembered folding it, right before he had left the house some time ago. Where was it?

He growled, exasperated. He turned to his closet… and it was bare. His mother had moved things around in her insanity, before they had taken her away to Mungo's.

His mother… he suddenly felt very tired. He moved, suddenly sluggish, to sag into his bed, not caring about the wrinkles that this might cause in his clothing. So tired…

His consciousness wavered, but his dozing was interrupted by a sliding sound that came from the ground near his door. It was coming closer. It almost sounded like a giant snake, slithering along the ground. And there was only one snake he knew of that was that large.

Desperately trying to sit up, but paralyzed by fear, his heartbeat accelerated, fasterfasterfaster and the _thing_ slid along the floor, and it was coming closer, it was crawling up the end of his bed, and he could feel its weight reach his toes; could see the dark shape as it came closer and closer to being illuminated by the moonlight.

He couldn't close his eyes. They were held open, his body unable to move in the slightest, held down by both the menacing, slithering weight, and his own fear.

And the thing reached the moonlight, and he could see its scales and fangs and bloodred eyes…

And his head felt like it was being pierced by a thousand knives.

He screamed.

xXxXxXxXx

"Godamnit, fucking nightmares!" was the first thing out of Draco's mouth when he awoke in the morning. It wasn't quite dawn yet as he proceeded to curse liberally about the nightmare-snake, Potter, the Weaselette, magic, and Merlin himself. He knew it was the Crucio that had caused it. He wasn't unfamiliar with the effects of the curse. It had been used on him quite a few times during the era of Voldemort, and a number of times before that in his own home… He shook it off. He would _not_ think about those occasions.

Nonetheless, all of his so-called experience had long since taught him that he always had nightmares after getting hit by the curse. It never failed. He also knew that the bad dreams, oddly enough, weren't experienced by most others when accosted by the same curse. His own body seemed doomed to torment him.

He wished he had been lucid enough after the curse to properly yell at Potter. He hadn't done so in a while, and now, when he truly had a reason to, Potter was gone.

Oh, wait, Potter lived here, didn't he? That meant that Draco could wake him up at a dreadfully early time _and_ scare him. He deserved it, the bugger. After all, the Weaselette wasn't available for him to threaten, and to be honest he was a bit scared of the witch in his current disarmed state. However, he was quite excited to shout at Potter. He had missed the rush of adrenaline it brought him. That didn't mean he had missed _Potter_, of course; he still hated the man. It was just amusing to watch the world's saviour explode. And he was very, very angry with him. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

He pushed himself out of bed, briefly wrinkling his nose at the thought that he was wearing the same pair of clothes for the third day in a row. He hadn't minded in prison, but at that time, it had not mattered. Nothing had mattered. He had been preparing for a long sentence with his most horrible memories. He could afford to be picky now, or at least to think about being picky.

He padded down the hallway and down the stairs to the area he had seen Potter disappear off to every once in a while. It was as good of a place as any to check for the brunet's room. There were just so many doors in this place, and the drafts were horrid as well. An overall rubbish place to live—which Draco thought was a bit odd. He had expected that loads of people would have thrown money at Potter after he won the war, but it seemed that Potter was just as poor as ever. He had to be. His clothes were atrocious.

After opening a few doors (which included another bathroom, an unused bedroom, a room filled with dead plants, and an odd room filled with small figurines and old trinkets), he finally came across Potter's room. The man was not awake yet, and Draco allowed himself a small mental cry of victory. He crossed the floor with as much silence as he could muster, heading toward where Potter resided obliviously under his coverlet.

He was just summoning the energy he needed to express his utter rage at him when he caught sight of two objects out of the corner of his eye. One was a calendar, hanging on Potter's wall. Except… it was dated the wrong year. He crossed to look at it, eyes narrowed. Surely it must throw Potter off, having his calendar a year ahead. Deciding to alert Potter later, if their relationship ever became more amicable, he moved on quickly to the second object.

It was his wand. Not his current wand, borrowed from his mother. He knew for a fact that that wand was currently locked in a safe downstairs. It was his old hawthorn wand, the wand he had purchased from Ollivander's as an eleven-year-old, and it was on Potter's bedside table, of all places. His fingers itched to grip the wand, to feel the wood's reassuring warmth in his palm. He reached for it, but wasn't sure whether he should grasp it or not. Surely someone would know if he used magic? Apparently he hesitated for too long, wrapped in indecision, because at that moment, Potter opened his eyes.

"Oh, Malfoy. Why the hell are you in my room?" he mumbled sleepily, sitting up and yawning. Draco growled at the lost chance, and then decided this was as good of a time as any to yell at him.

"Avenging my lost sleep, that's what. Do you know I just had a bloody nightmare because of the damn curse your bitch of a girlfriend hit me with?" he shouted, picking up speed and pacing a small spot in front of the bed while Potter looked on bewilderedly. "Why the hell didn't you tell her I was here? Oh, yes, you were too busy sucking her face off. And I suppose it didn't matter to you anyway. You wouldn't care about a former Death Eater. Why did you even bother saving me? It's not like there's much of a difference between this place and Azkaban. At least there I don't get fucking Crucio'd!" he roared, swiftly moving to trap Potter's hands. He loomed over the dark-haired man, who now wore a scowl instead of a confused façade. "I want you to stay away from me," he whispered harshly, right into the man's face. "I don't want your fake kindness, or your fresh breakfast, or your altruism. Just stay the fuck away."

Potter spluttered angrily and he looked as if he were about to say something, but Draco decided he had enough of the man's presence and stalked out of the room. That had felt good. And now, maybe Potter would stay away from him for a while. That would certainly make life much less awkward.

xXxXxXxXx

And stay away, he did. Weeks passed. Draco was bored, of course, but he had persuaded himself that it was loads better than having to look into Scarhead's face every day. Much better.

He slowly began a routine. Every morning, he would sleep in, which felt like a blessing with a soft bed to rest in. He would wake up slowly, not pressured by anything, and then he would take a nice, long shower punctuated by his daily morning wank. It was quite lovely to relax and waste Potter's water at the same time. He would then fill the bath up with a bit of water and soak while he washed his clothes. He figured it was necessary, seeing as he had to wear them every day.

After he had dried his clothes the best he could, he put them on and began his exercise routine. Just because he was in captivity didn't mean he could let himself get all flabby and out of shape. He couldn't run, because he would feel daft going back and forth down his hallway, but he did curl-ups and things of the like in his room.

It was usually around noon at this time of day, meaning that Potter had already gone to work or something or other. Now that Draco had found a calendar and reacquainted himself with the days of the week (though he didn't bother with dates, not quite trusting Potter's year-ahead calendar), it was quite easy to predict when he would be away or at home for the weekend. On weekdays, it was usually safe to attempt cooking. He had to admit, he was horrible at it. He had no idea how to work the stove or any of the other appliances, much less cook with them. Thus, it was a pattern of trial and error, one at which he did not seem to be improving at all. To say it frustrated him would be an understatement.

Weekends were another matter. Those days, he had to listen carefully near the kitchen door to ensure that Potter was nowhere near the area. Then he prepared his meals as fast as possible in an effort to avoid the man. He suspected that Potter tended to vacate his kitchen on purpose. That was fine with him.

After his somewhat burnt daily nourishment, he spent a while on the couch during weekdays, reading Potter's surprisingly good collection of books on spell theory. He supposed Granger must have picked them out. There was no way that his caretaker had enough good taste to purchase them on his own.

He did not spend but so many hours out in the open, as he had no desire to encounter the brunet he lived with. Instead, he went back to his room and lay on the bed until the boredom became too heavy to bear. At these times, he went to work at stripping the ugly wallpaper from the wall. It was an atrocious brown print with putrid yellow flowers, and he was only too glad to be getting rid of it. It was a long process, though. Time had stuck the paper to the wall very, very thoroughly, and he usually ended up picking off inches instead of the feet he would have desired. It wasn't fun, but it gave him something to do.

Throughout his quickly formed routine, he began to realize that he really, really missed magic. Every time he went to cast a spell and reached for the wand that wasn't there, an ache went through his heart. His magical core, which before had been a comforting warmth within his soul, had grown dark and unstable. And he absolutely _hated _it. The absence of magic hadn't been quite as bad when he was alone in his cell and had no use for it, but now, when he was back to everyday life, it was absolutely horrid. He would do anything to have his magic back, if only the bloody Ministry wasn't keeping an eye on him.

And so three months went by, and Draco's routine wore a rut into his life.

xXxXxXxXx

It was an ordinary weekday. Draco had just finished his daily wrestle with the kitchen. He turned away from the cooling stove and almost dropped his plate, for Potter was sitting there, looking at him as if it were an ordinary occurrence.

To be honest, Draco had almost forgotten that the other man lived with him. He wasn't really one to crave company, especially from a man he thoroughly distrusted. It had been nice not having to deal with him. But now, here he was at the table, when he was supposed to be at work, staying out of Draco's way.

"Why the hell are you here?" Draco muttered crossly, secretly miffed at his own inability to detect Potter's entrance into the room. He seated himself at the table, convinced that if he went about this like a normal day, Potter would soon disappear and leave him be.

"I'm sitting at my kitchen table, what's it look like?" Potter raised an eyebrow. Draco tossed him a glare. Then he winced—he had just taken a bite of his egg-and-bacon-mush, and it was particularly nasty today. He could see Potter chuckling out of the corner of his eye, and he scowled.

"Stop being a smartarse and tell me why you're here," he muttered, sneering at the man. "I don't need your company."

Rolling his eyes, Potter replied, "I just thought you ought to know that Ginny's moving in. We're engaged."

Draco looked up at him in shock, slamming his fork down on the table. "You're letting that _bint_ into the house? She'll bloody murder me in my sleep!" he exclaimed. He truly was horrified, besides the theatrics he felt were necessary. He did _not_ like the Weaselette.

"That's a load of tripe and you know it. She's not going to murder you, or maim you, or punch your pretty face in, if that's what you're worried about. She likes you about as much as you like her, so stop grumbling. I'm sure she'll leave you alone." Potter looked like he was trying to be reasonable, which would actually be quite funny if Draco wasn't so incensed.

"How can you guarantee that, Potter? You can't say that you'd be sad if you found me dead. The AK doesn't leave a mark, you know. You would "find" me in bed one morning, and then the both of you would deny knowing anything about my death, and everyone would believe you because you're the bloody Chosen One. And no one likes me anyway," he sulked, moodily stabbing at his mush. He stabbed at his mush, but couldn't bring himself to eat another mouthful. His stomach felt a little queasy at the knowledge of how easy it would be for the Weaselette and Potter to do him in, and—

"Have you really been eating that every day?" Potter interrupted his gloom-and-doom thoughts. Draco frowned at him.

"Yes. What's it to you?" he glared. Now Potter was going to make fun of him on top of everything.

"Why didn't you, I dunno, eat some biscuits or something? They're in the cupboard, you know," he pointed out, leaning his head on his chin and smirking a bit.

Draco muttered something about detesting biscuits, to which Potter raised an eyebrow and then stood up.

"Is that even edible?" he asked in a muffled voice, as his head was in the cupboard, retrieving the biscuits. Draco scowled, but pushed his plate away nonetheless as Potter returned, munching on a biscuit and handing Draco the package. "Here, have some. They've got to taste better than _that_, even to someone who claims to detest them," he motioned to the plate. As an afterthought, he Vanished the lumpy rubbish, preventing Draco from any other alternative. Sighing, Draco conceded, taking a biscuit as Potter once again seated himself across from the blond.

"What's with the sudden friendliness?" Draco asked after a while, slightly distrustful of Potter. Then again, he wasn't a Slytherin—he wouldn't have it in him to scheme or plot. At least, Draco hoped not.

"Err… Well, I figured, you've been living in my house for months now, and we've barely had three conversations. And then I got to thinking, you must be a bit lonely all holed up in your room like that. I mean, it's house arrest, not bed rest," he joked feebly. Draco scowled at him. Potter continued, a bit sheepish after his joke had fallen flat. "And then Gin's moving in and all, and I reckoned I should get to know you a bit better as well, since you're here and all." He shifted uncomfortably.

"And then what, my sentence gets shortened and we get engaged as well and ride off into the sunset on a three-person-broom?" Draco muttered dryly. Potter snorted, and he allowed himself a bit of satisfaction. At least his sense of humour was still better than Potter's, if not his cooking skill.

"No… I just reckoned, we could be, you know, friends, I guess." Draco raised his eyebrows. "Or at least acquaintances. Non-enemies. A truce, if you will." Potter shrugged.

Draco toyed with the biscuit wrapper, weighing his choices. He could take Potter up on his offer, and have free reign of the house, but then he would have to deal with seeing Potter every single day. And the Weaselette. Ugh. On the other hand, he could go back to his solitary "bed rest", which was honestly starting to get a bit boring. He had long since finished stripping the wallpaper, and unless he wanted to start on the hallway, there was nothing much for him to do.

His decision was probably already made, but he held Potter in suspense for a good moment or two longer before he spoke.

"You know your calendar's a year ahead?" he offered. Potter looked at him quizzically.

"No, it's not. It's 1999, didn't you know? June 29th, to be exact," he assured. "I should know, I have to put it on all of my papers for Auror school."

Draco gaped at him. "You mean… I was in the Ministry cells for a year?" Potter nodded. "I thought it was maybe a month! An entire year…" Draco's face twisted. "Fuck, I'm 19 now, aren't I?"

"Didn't you notice the time going by?" Potter asked, looking just as confused as Draco.

"Most of it was blackness, really. I can't really remember much… but I could've sworn it was only about a month," he murmured, devastated. That meant he had technically been sentenced to eight years in imprisonment. Another year of his life that he would live without magic. "Bloody hell…"

"That's quite odd, actually. I'll have to ask Hermione for her input," Potter mused. "Malfoy—erm, Draco… d'you want some real food?" he offered, but Draco shook his head fiercely. Potter sighed and went to stand up.

"…No," Draco looked up at him, stopping him in his escapade. "It's just a lot to think about right now… but maybe a spot of tea?" He had sorely missed tea. Potter brightened a bit.

"Does this mean you're okay with a figurative armistice?" he tilted his head to the side hopefully. Draco sighed, cornered.

"I had no idea you had such a vocabulary! Granger must really have gotten to you," Draco teased. "…I suppose I can handle that," he allotted, "…Harry." The name felt strange on his tongue without the accompanying surname.

Harry himself grinned. "I'll leave you to your moodiness, then. Draco." He left the table to put the kettle on, seemingly elated. And as Draco watched the strange, Gryffindorish man who had saved him from Azkaban, he found that, oddly enough, he was looking forward to seeing more of him.

_A/N: I do not own these beautiful boys… And thus, another chapter has been written. I'm challenging myself both with chapter length and actually continuing the plot. I'm not very confident about this story, but I'd like to continue on anyway... Comments/reviews are much obliged._

_~alexa; xoxo  
_


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